A Sense of Realism
by Pteropus717
Summary: How Amon really got his scars.


The Lieutenant nudged the door shut with his foot and reached for the machine, handling it with equals parts reverence and apprehension. It was heavier than his generator and more unwieldy than his kali sticks. He shuffled his feet until he found a stance that allowed him to aim the device steadily.

Amon stood in the center of the room, mere steps away. His hood was down, revealing his all-too-vulnerable ears, the soft flesh beneath them, the crease in his hair where his mask was tied. He hadn't removed it yet. He was still, almost predatory in his posture, and yet something was different about him. He was determined, impassive, ready…but wary. One thing the Lieutenant had always respected about the Equalist leader was his unflinching approach to danger. This time, Amon was making a clear effort to steel his nerves. The Lieutenant didn't blame him.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, hefting the device so that its nozzle pointed away from the man. Amon nodded slowly, staring at the machine.

"Yes," he said. He unbuttoned his coat and tossed it to the ground along with the shoulder pads, removing all extraneous articles of clothing until only the practical black layer remained. He slipped his fingers under the mask's string, loosening the knot until the mask dropped into his free hand. The Lieutenant's arm jerked, a surprised reflex to seeing his master revealed so suddenly. Amon didn't seem to notice; his eyes were fixed on the pale surface of his future face. He traced the painted designs, brushing his thumb over the red circle, appearing deep in contemplation. When he finished studying it, he laid the mask on top of his clothes, ensuring that it was cushioned by the fabric before standing once again. "I am ready."

The Lieutenant fiddled needlessly with the dials, twisting them in one direction only to return them to the original settings. He'd practiced with the bulky device, knew how to aim it with precision. He and Amon had trained for the past week on mannequins to familiarize themselves with the duration and range of the blast. They'd tested it over and over again, trying new angles and power levels until the results were perfect. But the trial run was over, and the Lieutenant found himself hesitating, just like he knew he would.

"Now," Amon said, his voice dropping to a growl. The Lieutenant refused to make eye contact. He wanted to advise returning the machine to Hiroshi, going out and finding a firebender to pay off in exchange for their services. Just to make sure the job was done properly. The idea flickered out almost instantly. The mere suggestion of enlisting a bender to do what a nonbender could accomplish with the right technology and skill… The Lieutenant shuddered to think of Amon's reaction to such a request. He chose a different approach.

"We could revise the story. Change the details… People'd still believe it if it was a waterbender who attacked you."

"No." The Lieutenant could sense Amon's patience winding down. His nerves threatened to get the better of him with every second that the task was delayed. "It was a firebender because people _need_ it to be a firebender. The realism doesn't come from critical thinking or analysis. It comes from putting a spin on what they already expect to hear. It comes from what we choose to craft _for_ them. We give them easily digestible details, and they fill in the rest of the story on their own." He took a deep, almost silent breath and forced his body to remain still. "I won't say it again, Lieutenant. _Do it_."

Amon closed his eyes, bracing himself and signifying the end of their conversation. The Lieutenant finally looked up from the dusty floor and moved to his leader's side. He struggled to maintain his composure, fighting off a lightheadedness he couldn't afford as he raised the flamethrower. The dials were in place, the safety settings ensured a minimal blast, and the Lieutenant had quick reflexes should they fail. Amon's hands had slipped from their usual place at the small of his back; they were at his sides, balled so tightly into fists that they seemed more bone than flesh. The Lieutenant aimed the device, rested his fingers on the triggers, took one last look at Amon's face, and pulled.


End file.
